Ancient Abbey, Soup Festival, And Healing Vichy Waters

I felt a longing to be around an abbey in the silence of the countryside as  Thursday was All Saints Day, a holiday here in France and the next day the celebration of the dead, a difficult weekend for me, even more so since the death of my son.

Families go to the cemeteries to honor their deceased loved ones with colourful Chrysanthemums flowers and spruce up gravesites, something I am unable to do here.

The ancient abbey Saint Vincent de Chantelle in Auvergne sounded perfect for prayer, rustic cuisine and nature, and the rural authenticity of old France.

Auvergne starts in the center of France and dips down into the canyons of the Massif Central.

Michelin tires and guidebooks made Clermont Ferrand, the largest city, well known worldwide as its headquarters.

This is the region of extinct volcanos, mountains, bubbling streams, deep gorges, canyons, and rugged rural terrain.

The home to some beloved cheeses such as Bleu d’Avergne, Cantal and Saint Nectaire.

The red wines take on a peppery smokiness from the volcanic ash filled soil and are a perfect foil for the rich potato and cheese specialties the region is famous for, such as truffade and aligot.

It is not the first time that Auvergne has lured me to visit, and it won’t be the last, as the area is quite large to see in a short visit.

My previous visits were to see the Black Madonnas that for some mysterious reason, Auvergne has more of them than the rest of France.

This time I wanted to be in the northern part due to the constraint of time allotted to a long weekend.

I had hoped to stay in the abbey, but their website only mentioned the possibility, rather than offer specifics, so I opted for a bed and breakfast that turned out really lovely.

The abbey was founded in 937, but even by 400, there was a church dedicated to Saint Vincent and a chateau fortress along a rumbling stream.

Today, the remaining nuns support themselves by making various creams, soaps and other cosmetics that they sell in their boutique.

Arriving a little before dusk last Friday, we made it over to the abbey’s chapel in hope of participating in evening vespers.

The convent gate was open, but the interior courtyard facing the abbey chapel was already darkened at 5:30pm.

The old wooden door creaked as I gently pushed it open hearing the soft voices of nuns singing  Vespers.

The simple, yet beautiful small church was bathed in a golden glow.  The nuns with faces weathered by time, but with a porcelain sheen sat in the first row.

Seated behind them were about 15 teenage girls, wearing scarfs around their necks, identifying them as scouts.

Les Scouts in France are traditionally young Christians affiliated with the Roman Catholic Church.

To the right of the altar was a modern rendition of a Madonna with Christ, colourful and smiling as to welcome us all.

In a few minutes, my grief overtook me again and warm tears started to roll down my cheeks.  It was after all the day of the dead, and I had missed Mass that day due to the drive.

I was amazed by the teen’s sincere reverence and prayerful devotion kneeling in front of the altar where the Saint Sacrament had been placed at the end of Vespers.

I prayed that their faith would sustain them through all the trials and tribulations that lay ahead of them in this often painful and confusing life.

Dinner that night was in Charroux, a medieval village nearby, totally dark, except the towering fortress wall lit up.

The quietness felt overwhelming strange as if we were invading some very private enclave.

La Ferme San Sebastien was beautifully decorated with fall foliage and plants and we were received with a very warm welcome.

I was impressed with all that we ordered, carefully prepared by talented female chef and owner Valérie Saignie and husband Phillipe.

From the amuses buches to the desserts, all were succulent and served by the most jovial Phillipe, who brought a festive air to our table.

The house specialty of chives beignets were addictive as warned and the first course of foie gras and riz de veau with parsnips and pears was very good.

We were in the vineyards of Saint Pourcain, an AOC that I rarely buy and drink. The red wine chosen was one of the finest examples of what Saint Pourcain can produce, called Filiation and made by the Laurent family.

It married well with the richly sauced deer tajine with figs served with mashed butternut.

The spectacular cheeses from Auvergne were served from a large and original Michelin bike trailer.

Philippe explained that during the Nazi occupation, with there wasn’t any gasoline to power cars, so bikes became the prevalent mode of transport of goods hauling them behind bikes contained in these cushioned trailers, engineered to not spill their contents.

Chef Valérie served us her marvelous chestnut souffle tart, chestnut sables and pain d’espice ice cream.

Josiane, the owner of the cute mason de village B&B in Chantelle offered her excellent homemade pain d’epice, the dark spiced honey bread famous in several regions in France, along with her lovely quince and mirabelles preserves for breakfast.

Overly fortified for the day, we headed out to Saint Pourcain de Sioule for their Saturday morning marché.

The huge Cathedral was overflowing with people during a funeral, which brought another heavy cloud of sadness.

The wine museum had a handsome statue of grapes adorning the courtyard.

These original breads looked tempting but would start to be stale by the time we returned to Paris.

With only violet figs purchased, we returned to Charroux in hopes of canvassing the village and buy soup bowls for the soup festival later that night.

No luck, as we learned that they would only be for sale starting at 5 pm  All of the village shops had closed down for lunch because of the 3-hour siesta still very prevalent in rural areas.

The other draw to Chantelle, besides the abbey, is the Gorge de Bouble that runs adjacent to the abbey promising more immersion in nature.

These look like the ancient latrines of the abbey hanging out from the wall facing where the stream once flowed.

The bubbling Bouble was once a source of power to run over 20 mills, mostly to grind flour, but some for pressing nut oils, such as walnut which grows well in the region.

We walked past two of them, one in a more dilapidated state than the other, but both boarded up.  A friendly lady horse trotted over to either welcome us or perhaps more in hope that we might offer her a treat.

We were not able to walk along the little stream, which can swell to dangerous levels of flooding during heavy rains, due to the mud from a recent downpour.

I caught sight of a pretty chateau above the Bouble with sheep grazing along the side.

We made sure to return Charroux by 5, so as to not miss out buying the hand potted soup bowls advertised as having been made in a limited number.

I was surprised to find that the line had grown well before us, with people walking past us with multiple bowls in hand.

By the time we were able to buy the cute bowls, the village was becoming dark, but to our dismay, the soups were not to be served until 7pm!

There wasn’t much to do, except either get an aperitif or look in the village boutiques swelling with others awaiting the hot soups.

A few bands were playing offering some distraction while waiting.

There was an interesting clock museum with one dating back to 6 th century but after that I would have liked an aperitif.

There was only one creperie bar open that I could find, offering some sparkling cider, but no champagne or other sparkling wine.

There were several stands of vin chaud made with cheap wine, overly sugared and spiced that is popular during these type of autumn and winter festivals that I generally pass up.

I found myself becoming tired, cold, hungry and disgruntled.  It appeared that this whole festival was more a staged event to entice buyers to spend time in the village boutiques, rather than a showcase regional soups.

I wanted some soup now! I ended up standing in line for over 30 minutes for what I considered to be the best soup offering from over 30 or so different kinds listed.

This one was made by a village chef who appeared busier behind his glass kitchen drinking wine and chatting with friends, than minding his green crab soup seen steaming on the stove.

When he finally set the huge pot outside on the burner, a large crowd had already gathered with the same idea.

Holding out our little bowls, in hope of them being filled with the hot soup, I had sobering thoughts that this is a good reminder of the plight of the many poor people who have to go through this nightly to have a hot meal.

The ladle used to dish out this long-awaited soup looked more thimble size than a regular soup ladle.

Nevertheless, the quarter cup or so if the hot crab soup tasted rich and my spoon kept scaping the bottom of the bowl to get out the last remaining drops.

The other soups were nice, but by this time, after two or three of them, I was tired of milling around in the cold, waiting in lines and wanted more substantial fare for dinner!

Back in Chantelle, the only good restaurant, Le Millesime, fortunately, had a table for us next to a roaring fire that felt wonderful to thaw out my limbs grown stiff with cold.

My first course was a nice carpaccio of scallops on the chef’s homemade lobster rilletes.

Boned partridge breasts were lovely and tender, but the sauce sadly tasted like it was made with canned fond de veau.

Sunday morning before heading back home, we stopped at the local charcutrie for the renown pompe au gratons, a brioche filled with fried pork skins and an encrusted potato and cream torte plus one of rabbit to take home.

We then drove about 30 minutes to briefly visit the center of Vichy around the famous thermal baths.

Vichy was the nec plus ultra of all thermal baths in France that attracted the rich and famous for thermal cures, lasting a week or so.

The healing waters were known back in Roman times and the Celestins convent was built around them in the 1400’s, from which the famous drinking water takes its name.

Bubbling mineral rich water baths were de riguer, as well as imbibing the medicinal waters to help cure ailments of those(called curists) who sought out these healing liquids from the center of the earth.

After coursing through thousands of years through dense underground mountains of sand and rocks, these waters become richly saturated with minerals and many are natural gaseous, like the famous Vichy Celestins.

Most reach the earth’s surface boiling hot and bubbling. One seen here has left encrustation of solid minerals.

There is a long tree-filled park bordered by white filigree covered alleyways that lead up to the beautiful art deco building where the curists go to drink the prescribed thermal waters. There is Chomel, Grille, Hopital, Lucas, and Celestin, each coming from a different well and having different mineral components.

All except the Celestin, which is marketed as the famous Vichy water was readily drinkable to my palate.

The others offered different degrees of funkiness due to the rich mineralizations, that are listed as beneficial to several dermatological and digestive ailments, with the Lucas and Hopital tasting the worse.

I would hate to be told to down cups full of those waters!

Medicinal they are, and there was even a warning not to drink them except only by prescription from the thermal doctor, or else have unwanted side effects, even dangerous ones in fragile persons.

I love thermal spas but had not considered Vichy before because they do not have a large outdoor pool with a view.

A few hours after drinking those awful tasting waters, while driving back to Paris,  Aimée and I both noticed we were in better spirits and even giving in to singing!

I had noticed they were high in lithium salts, which is well known as a mood stabilizer and enhancer.

The fact that they have been bubbling around mother earth for perhaps a million years or so may have given them a healing edge to induce results more quickly than could be imagined.

So, no wonder Vichy became famous and sought out by the millions for her healing waters.

All I know that we both felt strangely in a better mood. Who knows!